But now the jury would.
After the paramedic came Dr. Nubia Quintana, the surgeon who had debrided the wounds, inserted a tube through the chest wall to release blood and air from the chest cavity, stanched the internal bleeding, removed the two bullets that had not exited, and given Harry a good dose of antibiotics. She used fancy terms like 'tension hemopneumothorax' but clearly gave the impression, which I liked, that the surgery had been no big deal.
'These bullets were twenty-two shorts, were they not?' I asked on cross-examination.
'I'd have to look at the police report,' Dr. Quintana said. 'They were small-caliber bullets, but whether they were twenty-twos or twenty-fives, I couldn't say.' She had done her residency at Jackson Memorial, the public hospital, where the Saturday Night Gun and Knife Club produced significantly greater wounds on an hourly basis.
'And none of the wounds severed an artery?'
'No.'
'Or caused extensive blood flow?'
'No.'
'In fact, only the chest wound gave you any concern?'
The doctor smiled, a bit condescendingly. 'I was concerned about all the wounds. The bullet that pierced the lung was the most serious.'
'A bad choice of words on my part,' I said humbly. Always admit your mistakes. The jury will like you for your semihonesty. 'None of the wounds was life threatening, correct?'
'Not directly, not if treated correctly and promptly.'
'Which was done here?'
'Yes.'
'And after surgery, what was Mr. Bernhardt's condition?'
'Guarded condition.'
'Life signs stable?'
'Yes.'
'Heart rate and blood pressure normal?'
'Within normal ranges, yes.'
'When Harry Bernhardt was wheeled out of surgery, you didn't expect him to die two hours later, did you?'
'Objection,' Socolow called out. 'The doctor's expectations are irrelevant.'
'Not to me,' I fired back. I was hoping the jury would disregard the judge's preliminary instruction and be pissed off at Abe for cutting off the flow of information.
'Overruled. Doctor, you may answer.'
'No, I did not expect him to die.'
'No further questions.'
Abe Socolow popped back up. He knew where I was going. The element of causation. Doc Charlie Riggs never thought much of my argument, but you never know what will move a jury.
'Dr. Quintana,' Abe began, 'when you said that the wounds were not directly life threatening, what did you mean?'
'Objection, leading.' Now I was doing it, because I knew where Abe was going.
'It's not leading,' Socolow shot back. 'I'm simply asking for an explanation as to when an injury is directly life threatening versus indirectly life threatening. A man doesn't have to be shot through the heart to die as a consequence of the bullet.'
'Now he's leading!' My pitch was a notch higher than normal.
The judge motioned to us. 'Come up here. Both of you.'
Abe and I circled around the far side of the bench, away from the jury. 'Now, Jake, there was nothing wrong with Abe's question. It wasn't leading, and you know it. He's got a right to have her explain the answer she gave you. But, Abe, don't be making speeches in front of the jury, at least not 'til closing argument. The objection is overruled, so get back where you belong.'
We retreated to our places, and the judge told Dr. Quintana that she could answer the question.
'None of these injuries individually would likely have killed Mr. Bernhardt. Even together, they might not have killed a younger man or a man with a healthier heart. But the stress of the injuries nonetheless killed him by ultimately causing the spontaneous ventricular fibrillations.'
'Nothing further,' Abe said, having repaired the damage and then some.
I stood up again for recross. 'Mr. Bernhardt had a seriously diseased heart, did he not?'
'He had atherosclerosis, yes. The medical examiner who did the autopsy would be better able to describe the extent of it.'
'Can you state with total certainty that Harry Bernhardt wouldn't have died of a heart attack on the night of June sixteenth even if he hadn't been shot?'
The doctor gave me a puzzled look, and I said, 'Let me rephrase that one without the double negative. In Harry Bernhardt's condition, he could have suffered a heart attack on June sixteenth or the day after that, or any other day, even without having been shot or undergoing surgery, true?'
'Yes, that's true. He was a candidate for a heart attack at any time.'
'Nothing further.'
Next came the nurse who had tended to Harry Bernhardt in the recovery room, and then a second nurse who had accompanied him to a private room inside the ICU. Sort of the equivalent of chain-of-custody evidence, as Harry got passed along from Tinker to Evans to Chance.
Harry Bernhardt's life signs were strong when Sylvia Gettis, RN, checked on him at eleven P.M. She'd pulled the graveyard shift and was at the nurses' station when the EKG monitor went off at 11:51 P.M. She raced twenty paces from her station to Harry's room, which was more like a suite for VIPs who were fortunate enough to find themselves in Intensive Care at the plush hospital instead of the county facility. Harry Bernhardt was thrashing in the bed, yelling, in obvious pain. The emergency team-an intern, a resident, an ER physician, an anesthesiologist, a respiratory therapist, and an EKG specialist-flew into the room.
They intubated Harry and forced oxygen into his lungs. They injected him with epinephrine, an adrenaline-like drug, and they started CPR. They checked his blood gases. In the rapid-fire shorthand of physicians, they shouted, debating possible causes of the ventricular fibrillation. Internal bleeding. A collapsed lung. An unseen bullet wound.
Harry's heart was on fire, the muscles contracting fiercely, the organ quivering, shaking itself to death. Then the heart slowed.
'Mr. Bernhardt coded,' the nurse told the jury.
'Which means what, Ms. Gettis?' Abe Socolow prompted.
'He flatlined. His heart stopped.'
They tried the paddles, jolting Harry's heart with 250 joules of current. Ka-boom. Ka-boom. Again and again. Nothing. He was pronounced dead thirty minutes later.
'Did you speak to Mr. Bernhardt before he died?' I asked on cross, realizing she wouldn't have spoken to him after he died.
'No. He was still groggy from the anesthesia.'
'And when you responded to the Code Blue, did you speak to him then?'
'I'm sure I asked him questions. He was conscious but in considerable pain. He was not really coherent.'
'So he didn't say anything to you?'
'Nothing except sounds, painful cries, that sort of thing.'
'Did he have any visitors before the monitor sounded at eleven-fifty-one?'
'Dr. Quintana stopped by. A detective looked in, then left. I told him the patient was in no condition to give a statement. And of course, the family physician.'
I was already sitting down, about to say, 'Nothing further,' when I realized what she had said.
'The family physician,' I repeated.
'Yes. Dr. Schein.'
How could I not know that?
